


Adrenaline High

by Rubynye



Category: DC Comics
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an effect of adrenaline rushes, Tim knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline High

**Title**: Adrenaline High  
**Rating**: NC-17  
**Pairing**: Nightwing/Robin III (Dick/Tim)  
**Other Pairings**: Tim's mind roams a bit.  
**Author's Excuse**: While playing with [](http://liviapenn.livejournal.com/profile)[**liviapenn**](http://liviapenn.livejournal.com/)'s various generators, I got a Dick/Tim result for every one. I decided that it had to be a message from someone (though probably not the Scary Bat God.)  
**Warnings**: Robin is by definition a teenager, and by canon not older than 16. Take from that and the rating what warnings seem appropriate.   
**Spoilers/Sources**: My Tim is largely drawn from _A Lonely Place of Dying_, _Robin: A Hero Reborn_, and the current _Teen Titans_ run. I think this ended up being set after the first TT graphic novel, and there are vague references to _Graduation Day_ as well.  
**Disclaimer**: These characters and their setting belong to DC Comics.  
**With Very Many Thanks**: to [](http://petronelle.livejournal.com/profile)[**petronelle**](http://petronelle.livejournal.com/) for the most excellent beta.

 

It's an effect of adrenaline rushes, Tim knows from reading and from experience even before he became Robin. An effect compounded by a long night on patrol featuring three different brushes with gunfire, with the fact that Tim's a teenager, and because the newest Nightwing suit looks like a light coating of satin black paint.

That's what it is, all it is. That's why Tim needs to masturbate before he can fall asleep, which he really should for at least four of the five hours remaining before school. Right now he's still too wired to be drowsy, hyperaware of his tense muscles and the adrenaline pulsing in his blood; the hardness of his dick is a more present sensation than the mattress beneath him, the sheets around his knees, or even the setting bruises on his left arm, but an orgasm's a quick, easy soporific. Besides, there's something reassuring in this proof that he's still an ordinary teenage boy, after a long night of being Robin.

Tim takes a breath, spreads his legs slightly, and consciously relaxes his arms and legs and spine. A fantasy seems appropriate at this point, something to replace thoughts of the night's patrol, so as Tim licks his hand and wraps it around himself, for the moment barely stroking, he starts taking down a few of the walls in his head. It always feels a little weird to do this, somewhere between enticingly wrong and transgressive to even think when in Gotham about other facets of his life, and some people still feel off limits (the stretch of Cissie's arm and the press of her pink lips as she draws...). The first full image he comes up with is, actually, of Steph, but it's of Steph as Spoiler, blonde ponytail streaming straight up, compact and vibrant in too-thin purple ("_eggplant_") as she slams onto a thug's head, and that's just too close to tonight. Cass backflips into his mind, an arc of deadly grace-- no, he can picture her leaping right out of his head to kick his ass. Kon would undoubtedly like that image, Tim thinks with a half-smile and a squeeze.

Kon's a thought, the line of his shoulders as he flies, the tilt of his head, the way his sky-blue eyes widen, and Tim gives himself a long stroke. Kon's a good thought; his developing muscles suit him, though he could stand to grow his hair out again. So could Bart, even though the mop he used to have sometimes nearly rivaled Starfire's (and Kory's undeniably hot but she's just too... much to think about here, even aside of all the history.) Bart crackled to a stop the other day, sleek and vibrating, and Tim found himself wondering what he would feel like beneath his hands, pressed against his body, if he would buzz and shiver Tim into motion.

Bart's constantly in motion. So is Dick, who isn't even a meta, unless his superpower is grace. Dick at the end of patrol, city lights outlining him as he flips off the roof into the night... Tim's hand speeds almost before he realizes it. Dick, flashing goodnight and good morning with a grin.... That's it, tonight. Parting his lips for breath, Tim tilts his head back, presses his eyes shut, and watches Dick fly.

Dick can tumble through space a thousand different ways. Some of them Tim can accomplish, some he's still learning, some he'll never have except as memories of Dick ignoring gravity, soaring across Gotham as Tim watches him. From below, a bright whirl of yellow-green-red in a camera viewfinder; from beside, a silhouette of black and blue, highlighted with white reflections and that flashing grin. From above even, wearing shorts and wrist-wraps, doing routines as Tim watched from the Cave's steps or the benches of a Bludhaven gym.

This is definitely it. Tim's jerking himself hard now, damp with precome, remembering the ways Dick twisted during their last dodge-and-spar across rooftops. Arm pressed tight to his side, his free hand finds his nipple and pinches it, sparks of pleasurable pain crackling through his body. The charge is building with every stroke, his breath is shredding into gasps, and in his mind he chases a laughing Dick across Gotham's glowing skyline, intent on peeling him out of his blue and black. Closer, closer---

\---the phone rings. The cellphone. The "work" not-actually-a-cellphone, which resides beneath Tim's pillow when he's in bed so as not to wake anyone else in the house. "Shit," Tim mutters, and pries his hand off his nipple, stills the one on his cock, and reaches for the phone. Using his non-dominant hand he fumbles it a little, but he's really too worked up to let go of himself, and eventually the phone flips open. "Robin here." Not gasping feels like an accomplishment.

"Tim." It's Dick. Of course. With the very smile in his voice that Tim was just imagining. Cheeks prickling hot as he swallows another curse, Tim cranes his neck, but he sees nothing outside the window but overcast night sky. He'd bang his head against the headboard except that Dick would hear it, and so might his dad or Dana. "Yes?" Tim hisses, trying to convey, 'Make it quick.'

"Hey," Dick responds, not in any hurry. Tim could just groan. He could also listen to Dick's voice and--- well, not yet. It might actually be serious. Even so, Tim doesn't move either hand. Nor does he hang up on a manifestly chatty Dick, despite the incredibly small hour. Instead, Tim listens.

And Dick talks, easy and warm. "I just wanted to check on you," he says blithely. "It was a tough night, and I was thinking about how it can be sometimes, after patrol." Dick breathes, and Tim's dick aches within the curve of his hand, and Tim reminds himself that squeezing himself is _more_ likely to cause a moan. "The middle of the night, when you've peeled off the suit, but you're not really a civilian again yet. When your blood's still pumping, through _every_ part of you." The emphasis is a wink. "Know what I mean?"

_That_ question was a leer. Tim realizes, with a jolt low in his belly and a throb in his groin, what Dick means, that Dick knows exactly what he was doing. It's a reassuring sort of embarrassment; sometimes it seems like Dick knows when Tim's in the mood before Tim even does. "I think I do," Tim hedges, weakly.

Dick laughs. "I _know_ you do. When you've made it through everything the bad guys could throw at you, and taken them off the street, and you're still way too pumped to sleep and so hard you could break something with it. Am I right?"

Well, Tim wasn't expecting the plausible deniability to be discarded quite so soon. "Uh, yeah." His cock is quite happy to go with this, though, and his brain only faintly protests. and when Dick speaks again Tim can hear the smile. "So, tell me about it."

"You called _me_, Dick." That's even weaker than the last retort, and Dick's laugh is even more pleased. Behind it, Tim hears traffic noise, and some small non-fried bit of his brain wonders why Dick is still outdoors. "I guess I did," Dick says, and traffic and the hour and everything else fades as he continues, "I'll tell you how it is for me, then. When I first heard ideas about the links between sex and death, they made intuitive sense, considering that I'd discovered jerking off in showers after patrol. For a long time I worried because fights made me horny. Of course, at that age, everything makes you horny."

Tim nods, then remembers that it can't be heard over even this communicator. "Yeah," he manages, and bites his lip at his own inarticulateness, but mental images of a teenage Dick jerking off in the Batcave shower, propped tensely against the tile wall, forehead plastered with wet bangs and creased with a slight frown of concentration, just don't leave much processor power for witty banter. Dick hums out a breath that almost seems to blow into Tim's ear, and Tim feels himself break out all over in a fresh wash of sweat. He hasn't even resumed stroking himself.

"After some time," Dick says, "I noticed a couple of patterns. After patrol, after a fight, I'd always fantasize about someone I fought beside, which made being in the Titans that extra bit interesting." The cheer in Dick's voice thins a bit, and Tim thinks of the newest Titans, and how he still hasn't spoken to Dick about his having joined them even after Dick headed off that impending tussle with the League. But then, the list of things they don't talk about is longer than, than...

...Tim can't think of what it's longer than, though his memory helpfully supplies, "Dick's dick," since Dick is cheerful again, lewdly so, almost _purring_ into the communicator. "You can move your hand, you know," Dick says; Tim blinks, and glances out the window again. Nothing's out there but clouds and streetlights. "Or would you rather have me jerking you off?"

And, well, it's not that it's suddenly Dick's hand squeezing and stroking Tim's dick, sticky-slick with precome. But Tim remembers that hand, longer fingers than Tim's and the slight twist to his strokes, and he remembers his own hand wrapped around the strange familiarity of Dick's dick; the memories overlaying the feel drag a moan out of him he can't stifle. Dick hums encouragingly, and says, "There you go," in the same voice he used when supporting Tim on gymnastics equipment. "The way I would if I were there. Bend one knee, Tim."

Tim does it, and groans, and Dick moans with him. "God. You should hear yourself." His breathing is speeding up, but he's still speaking slowly, deliberately. "If I were there, I'd cup your balls in my other hand, rub them with three fingers and press under them with the other two. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," Tim grunts, apparently the only word he has left; propping the phone between pillow and ear he does it, and _fuck_, it still amazes him a little how intense that is, pushing his prostate even from the outside.

"Tim," Dick breathes, drawing it out like a word from another language. "Tim. You sound incredible. I bet you look incredible, too, touching yourself, your back arched and your eyes closed. Know what I'd do if I were there?"

"Nnngh," Tim replies.

That wasn't quite a word, but Dick tells him anyway. "I would kiss your eyelids, and kiss the skin of your cheekbones where the mask sticks, and kiss the bridge of your nose. And I wouldn't kiss your mouth." Tim huffs derisively, and Dick's answering laugh is thready, the roughness of his breathing nearly overwhelming it. "I'd kiss your neck instead, down along your pulse on one side, and then the other, and bite you right where it joins your shoulder, not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough for you to feel it. Can you feel it?"

Tim can feel it, almost as if Dick were with him, soft hair brushing the underside of his chin, head bent to suck a bite that would make Tim shout and twist and gasp. Tim can almost feel each pressing tooth, the heat of Dick's tongue on the sweetly sore dents, the press of his lips smiling over the skin. Tim presses harder with one hand and strokes faster with the other, listening to Dick's ragged breathing in his ear and a faint but unmistakable slap of hand on flesh behind it, and thinks of Dick biting him, Dick denting the bed beside him. "And I'd lick, oh, Tim, that scar on your neck, because it's all about being alive, this is all about still being here---"

The scar throbs as if Dick is really licking it, hard and fast as he's breathing, hard and fast as Tim is jerking himself, and Tim loses the phone because he has to twist to the other side and press his face into the pillow to muffle himself as he comes. Hard. Stars across his vision, shooting over his belly, shaking like he's going to shatter.

Tim goes limp, and gulps, then swipes one hand dry on the sheets and grabs the cellphone just in time to hear Dick's near-soundless, "Tim," and his long wavering groan, and a soft thud.

On the roof, to the right, Tim hears a soft thump.

The fact that he actually says, "I heard a noise," before figuring it out, Tim ascribes to post-orgasmic stupidity. Besides, Dick's quiet, gasping stream of profanity in response is pretty gratifying. "Getting sloppy in your old age?" Tim asks, and is treated to another dual thud as Dick presumably bangs his head on the roof again.

Then Dick laughs. "You caught me." Only by listening very carefully over the pounding of his heart can Tim hear Dick cross the roof before he appears, shamefaced and upside-down and with one gauntlet held in his teeth, at Tim's bedroom window.

Tim looks at Dick, whose lenses are down to display intentionally wide eyes, and trails two fingers through a splotch of come by his left nipple, and considers leaving the window closed. For perhaps two heartbeats. Maybe.

Then he opens the window, and Dick climbs in, grinning around the glove, which he drops on the bed; he smells much warmer than the cool night air, slightly sweaty and musky and mouthwatering. His hands look dry; Tim imagines Dick coming onto his roof, above him, as he watches Dick crawl up over him so they're face to face. If Tim let his heartbeat and breathing slow now, he could probably relax enough to get three hours of sleep.

If he could. Dick is on his hands and knees over Tim, not quite touching him, toeing off his boots. "I am going to _kill_ you," Tim whispers, all the more vehemently because he can't keep himself from smiling. "I'm going to kill you, quickly, before I finish dying of embarrassment."

Dick smirks, peels his suit top off, and leans down a little. "Well, if we're going to die, we might as well have sex."

Tim forces himself to lie still. "You should be in your own bed, by yourself." He can hear the affection in his voice, and Dick's smile is nearly bright enough to read by. "I know," he responds as he twists out of his tights, never once looking away from Tim's face, "your parents are asleep, we'll be quiet."

By the time Tim decides to allow himself to put his arms round Dick's neck, they're already there, Dick's hair soft and a little damp between his fingers. He's going to have to remember to change his sheets this afternoon. Before he takes a nap. "This is irresponsible," he says, digging his fingers into the back of Dick's neck, and Dick half-laughs and half-purrs; feeling Dick's happy moan as he rubs harder, Tim briefly considers the joke about brotherly love that he is _never_ going to make.

When Dick laughs softly Tim looks up to see the same thought in his eyes, and before he can stop him Dick whispers, "How do you feel, little brother?" as he settles onto Tim's sticky body. The morning shower's going to cost at least five extra minutes, maybe fifteen if Dick's hand pushing up behind Tim's knee is any indication.

"I hate you so much," Tim replies, and Dick smiles over his mouth.


End file.
